


A State of Disrepair

by tyranicToaster



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, canon doesn't exist past s2 there is only jontim communicating and making amends here, its about the catharsis..., set in season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26964619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyranicToaster/pseuds/tyranicToaster
Summary: Jon is sick, Tim is (rightfully) upset, and that, my friends, is a recipe for disaster.Or: on relationships, vulnerability, and rebuilding trust.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 80





	A State of Disrepair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Tim have a very one-sided argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This is my first TMA fic and I am looking forward to the response! I've always been a sucker for sickfics and I am starving for jontim content so! Here we have both.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy <3

Jon felt ill. It was nothing new; he always did, always had since halfway through highschool when he was down with a particularly bad sinus infection that was _meant_ to go away with antibiotics but instead stretched on for years. Thankfully, this particular illness wasn't too unpleasant, much the same way a stubbed toe was less painful than a broken one. He was warm though -- impossibly warm, burning in the office because of the heating, and they always did have to turn it on didn't they? Couldn't leave well enough alone and let the others wear jumpers, had to keep it on no matter how nauseous or shaky or miserable he felt.

But that wasn't important. He just needed a statement. that would surely set him to rights, surely make him feel a bit more… He'd say human, but no. No. Human was sickness, human was heat, human was shaking and shivering in his chair despite feeling like he was burning from the inside out, despite feeling like his head was caving in and gravity had suddenly increased tenfold.

Okay, so maybe he'd lied. Maybe it was worse than usual. Maybe he didn't care. No one else did, not besides… But he couldn't tell him, could he? No, best to stick it out. Best to keep with it, keep going, keep falling deeper into the hole he'd dug for himself from the moment Martin found Gertrude's body. Maybe… Maybe from the moment he'd accepted this position.

He pressed record and began to read.

It was a nasty one. Something with spiders, and there were so _few_ with spiders but they always left his skin crawling in a way that even the most harrowing infestations didn't. He rubbed his arms and worked on evening out his breathing. The followup, he needed… He needed to perform followup. He set about pulling his laptop close when the door opened to reveal-- No. Please, not now. Not when his brain was made of cotton and the room was surely on fire, not _now_ , not _him_ . But he blinked and the figure -- _Tim_ , he thought distantly -- only loomed taller.

"What the fuck is this?" He asked. And what was it? Were his glasses on? He couldn't see it, but he could swear he felt them, sitting heavy on his nose, slipping down to the tip.

"I don't-- I don't know?" And wasn't that the worst answer he could have given.

Footsteps, loud and angry, coming closer. Instincts he'd developed early in his life took over, and he sat up straight, looked up, pasted on a blank expression with the slightest hint of guilt because guilt was good, guilt was appreciated when you'd obviously done something wrong. He swallowed and blinked hard and did his best to pay attention as Tim's words swam in front of him. House? His house. He'd taken a picture of Tim's house, and how did he know where it was? How did he find him, why can't he be normal for once, why can't you be reasonable Jon, why can't you make sense Jon, why are you such a _freak_ Jon--

He sat, still and stoic, taking it all with platitudes and nods that made him want to scream at himself because damn it, he'd _actually_ fucked up here. Tim said so, Jon knew so, maybe even Knew so, but he'd been too scared to apologize, had instead pushed it all away like the coward he was.

* * *

Tim was furious, but that wasn't new these days. He'd never been a very angry guy before the archives, before Gertrude and Jon and this _stupid_ paranoia. He'd tried hard, so _fucking_ hard to keep from blowing up at those he cared about, because he knew if he didn't he'd ruin their image in his head for the rest of time. He hadn't expected his friend to ruin himself instead, but here they were.

A picture was clenched tightly in his hand -- a picture of a house, _his_ bloody house -- and that just figured that he'd find it today, didn't it? Get on the tube and actually feel _right_ for once until Jon ruined it all again like he always seemed to. They were _all_ scared, they were _all_ worried but no, Jon had decided to drive a wedge deeper between them all, to recede with paranoia and delusion until they weren't even _people_ anymore, just suspects in a case of his own design.

They could have been close. They _had_ , Tim _knew_ they'd been close once. Tim had… He'd cared once. He'd tried so hard for Jon, come to bat for him countless times, and this… This was all he'd gotten in exchange. He'd lost a friend and gained both a stalker and a bone deep hatred that he even now couldn't reconcile with the image of Jon still floating around in his head.

Tim didn't think as he barreled towards the office. His mind was emptied of meaning and filled with visceral rage as he stormed in and towered over the man who had once meant something good to him. Had he always been that small? Had he always looked so tired? He must have, because no one who had hurt him this much could be worth the pity and concern threatening to bubble up in his chest. He pushed the emotions down and yelled louder. Maybe if he was loud enough, he could drown out his own doubts.

* * *

Jon clenched his teeth and curled up tight, trying to block out the noise. Everything was fluid and slippery, too impossible to grasp. The words and feelings and thoughts were nothing but shapes he couldn't identify, and he had never been more frustrated in his life. He'd been _wrong_. He'd shattered something important because he never seemed to keep the things and people and thoughts he cared about. They faded away and left him a little less human, a little less tethered to the rest of the world. His head had to be floating or else it was definitely crushed by now. He tried to reach out but instead his finger just twitched, and oh, that couldn't be good, could it? He needed to move, he had to keep going because…

Well, actually… What _was_ the reason? He was sure there was an answer somewhere, trapped in the mess of light and sound and sensation that closed in on him so completely. Why else would he be here? Why else would he be so distressed, so overwhelmed and in need of it? Fairy floss crawled through his ears and encircled the backs of his eyes until the nothing and everything around him looked as fuzzy and wispy as the substance itself. He could feel the sugar drip from his inner corners, could feel it trail down his face like little lines of clarity and drip down onto the legs he wasn't quite sure he had.

Tim was with him, right? Tim was smart. Far smarter than Jon at least, not that he'd ever admit it. Surely Tim could figure out what was going on, why everything was so off kilter… Right?

But… But no. No, he wasn't a good face to have anymore. Not a good sight to see. Jon held too tight and then threw it all out into that big ocean of mistakes he'd accumulated over the years. He'd liquified their relationship and left it to its own devices while he slipped further and further into something shaped like paper and books and shelves and cork boards, something sharp and useless without that softness to balance it out.

And now Tim was back, standing in his office, flushed with anger, and the angles he cut reminded Jon of a star set to explode. But stars didn't have angles, did they? They weren't supposed to. That's probably why this new shape had never quite fit. Probably why he seemed likely to burn brighter and brighter until he was nothing but a black hole.

Still, the buzzing and ringing got louder as he focused on the blazing star in front of him, and he was so, so afraid of what would happen if he kept so close. He tried to move, but he couldn't. Maybe he wanted it to tear him apart. Maybe he needed it to, to make up for everything he was.

* * *

Tim knew Jon's eyes. He'd become quite familiar with them thanks to busy days bantering back and forth in research and quiet nights sitting shoulder to shoulder on his couch, watching shitty movies and pretending there wasn't anything left unsaid when they let their hands intertwine. Jon's eyes were a deep brown, piercing and feverbright, shining with understanding and a need to know more. Now though… He made the mistake of looking and found his anger nearly fizzling out at the _wrongness_ of it. They were still feverish, but brighter than what was normal or healthy for him, and that spark, that drive… It was missing. Jon's gaze was dull and unfocused -- confused, definitely confused -- and not even pointed in Tim's direction. He tried, sure, but they kept sliding away, like Tim wasn't even fully tangible to him.

He knew that was bad. Of course he did. How couldn't he with the years of history between them? Still, he wasn't in the most rational state of mind, and really, why should he care in the first place? It was obvious Jon didn't give enough of a damn to think of _him_ , so Tim had no obligation to do the same. He pressed on, continued to let off steam and yell himself hoarse to this apparently unseeing, unhearing audience, hopefully until he didn't have anything left.

It didn't feel good, getting his anger out like this. He liked problems he could fix, issues he could talk out or mold into a solution. This… This was just aggravating an already open wound, rubbing salt and lemon until the skin was red, raw, angry. Even then, he couldn't seem to stop.

It was scary if he was being honest. He was so _scared_ all the time -- scared for himself, for Sasha, for Martin, for _Jon_ \-- but how was he supposed to fix _this_ ? How was he supposed to fix something that he hadn't broken, something that broke _him_? He didn't know the answer, so he slammed his hand down on the table hard enough to finally, finally get Jon's attention. And then… Then, well… He didn't know what result he'd wanted, but this wasn't it.

* * *

It wasn't bright like he thought. Loud but not bright, only dull and upsetting and so, _so_ sharp. He made a noise surely, but he couldn't know which one because his ears were stuffed with clay and the only thing in front of him was a man he'd wronged a million times over. The space in between his ribs ached horribly and he stared and shook and waited for words to claw their way out of his mouth the way they always did, but all he could hear now were broken sobs and soft murmurs that couldn't be his own. His face was wet but-- but he was sure he was inside, wasn't he? It couldn't be raining in here, that would be… Ridiculous. The man in front of him looked… Different. Different but just as tall, just as insurmountably big as he had been this whole time. Nothing else was there besides him, not even Jon. How could he possibly take up space when Tim was so much, and Jon was nothing but a jigsaw puzzle scattered across a nonexistent floor? Nothing fit and nothing made sense and it felt numb and painful all at once, like the world had turned inside out just to swallow him up.

He saw the hand move towards him and he had no way to escape, no reason to escape. He'd earned it hadn't he? He'd earned what he'd gotten and this was just the result of it, of the pain and misery and hurt that came billowing off him any time someone got too close. It was his turn again, his turn like it honestly always should be. He walked right into it. Knocked on its door.

His vision swirled, but this couldn't be… this had to be something else because he hadn't seen a strange door and he certainly hadn't walked through one. His skin sizzled in a way only ice on a burn could sizzle and the steam rose up to his throat until he was left breathless and hacking, which earned a disgusted noise from somewhere far off. Jon's surroundings began to shift and he begged it wasn't Distorting while he prayed it was, because he wanted to be dissolved out of existence just as much as he didn't. In response, he felt pressure, sturdy and calming. It closed him in and kept him from slipping and sliding apart into individual strings, individual strips of whatever had become of Jonathan Sims.

The world quickly faded away, and all he could do was hope it wouldn't come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up soon! I'm aiming for 3 but we'll see how things go.
> 
> Also, please tell me if I should add any tws!


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